WHEN WE GETÂ back to the cottage, everyone disperses to wash the dayâs grit and sunburn away before dinner. Itâs Taco Thursday, a tradition in which Sabrina makes a much-too-large meal while the rest of us bumble around, acting as her semi-inept sous-chefs.
âTonight,â Sabrina says, ticking her menu items off as we walk up to the front door, âweâre doing a grapefruit and avocado salad, doused in citrus dressing and fennel. Zucchini fritters and grilled corn. And then fried fish tacos for the meat eaters among us, and pulled jackfruit ones for Kimmy and Cleo.â
The side dishes change, as do the taco toppings, but Sabrinaâs always been adamant that the worst thing about vacationing in Knottâs Harbor is the absence of a good taco place, and she cannot abide that. I linger downstairs while everyone else goes up, waiting until Wyn comes back with clean clothes, headed to the outdoor shower, as I knew he would be.
âItâs all yours,â he says, tipping his head back toward the stairs at the front of the house.
âThanks.â We both root to the spot for a few seconds.
He cracks first, heading for the back door.
Upstairs, I rifle through my luggage for something comfy and warm enough to sit out on a cool night like this, and then head toward the bathroom portion of the suite. My phone lights up on the side table, and I stop to pick it up.
Momâs texted me, and I have no idea what sheâs talking about.
I drop the phone like itâs a live snake.
phone, not mine. Mineâs on the other side of the bed.
I step back, heart beating furiously. Iâm unsure if Iâm more afraid of being caught with Wynâs phone or of what else I might see on it. Scratch that, itâs the second one.
For a minute I donât know what to do. My mind is cycling through all the worst possibilities, the things Gloria might want Wyn to tell me.
Something about her health. Something about his.
Or maybe heâs started introducing the idea of the breakup to her, slowly guiding her toward the expectation that we donât belong together and that it has nothing to do with the physical distance caring for her requires.
.
. The thought pings through me, a drunken, angry pinball rebounding back and forth between my ribs. Heâs happy. He mightâve gone to Montana for his mom, but heâs there for himself now.
She must see how happy he is. She must know heâs ready to let go of me.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, tears pouring down my cheeks out of nowhere. I donât know why, but it feels like a whole separate breakup. Accepting, now, the truth: That heâs moved on. That all these moments I cling to, like little mental life rafts, are just memories for him.
The truth is, I donât know what this text means.
I can talk myself in and out of worrying about it all day, but itâs not my business. Just like I told him my life wasnât business.
I wonât ask. I canât. If he wants to tell me, he will, but itâs been a long time since Wyn has given me any answers. Much longer than five months.
I take a shuddering breath, square my shoulders, and get into the shower.
Where I cry some more.